The Beginning's End

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." -Semisonic

Tomorrow morning the birth center where my children were both welcomed to this world will close.  They will still have appointments there at the clinic, but the actual birth rooms will no longer be used. They have opened a new "Midwifery Center" at the hospital for the midwives where that will focus on low-intervention, physiological birth. They will still allow water births and families will be able to go home after 4 hours, just like they could at the birth center. They have real beds instead of hospital beds, and the requisite family waiting area and kitchenette.  All of the boxes are checked and it should be just the same, only in the hospital. 

But it's not the same.  It looks like a hospital, it feels like a hospital.  It is sterile.

About a decade ago, before we were able to even seriously consider having babies, A was perusing my copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and read about births attended by midwives, home births, and free-standing birth centers. Being raised by a mother who had a home birth and avoided doctors when at all possible, my response to her exciting new knowledge was probably somewhere along the lines of "Yeah, so?"  Her next tidbit was that there was a birth center less than a mile from us.

I remember being more freaked out that she looked this up than excited, we were still years away from being able to start a family.  However, we both established well-woman care there so we could get a feel for it and start meeting the midwives. They were lovely, and we were sure this was the place for us.

Fast forward to 2012, we finally had conceived E and we were nervous and excited to start our prenatal visits and centering classes.  Since we had been foster parents, we had already had a taste of the marginalization same sex couples face as parents, but we weren't prepared for the onslaught that came with being pregnant.  The birth center was our haven.  We knew we would be included and valued.  We knew that our care providers would make an effort to use language that was respectful. When they didn't know they best way to talk about something, they would ask instead of being awkward and uncomfortable or downright insulting. We could have conversations and were empowered to be in control our health instead of just being told what to do. It was refreshing.

When we finally were able to tour the birth rooms, they were each carefully decorated in a different style and we fell in love with the blue room. That September, we welcomed E to the world surrounded by strength and love.

When it was time for A's pregnancy with C, we couldn't wait to get to know our new Centering class and be surrounded by this wonderful community once again.  This time we would regularly have to go back to a birth room to check A's blood pressure, it seemed to get stage fright. Often we would end up in the green beachy room, and decided that would be where C was born.

Since then I have been able to be involved on the community advisory board and my friendship and respect for this amazing group of strong women only grows.  As we learned about the plans to close, I was shown the true depth of spirit they have poured into the birth center.  My own sadness and nostalgia were nothing compared to the fierce protective force they showed as we tried to save it.

The new hospital unit is a welcome addition to the options for birth in Tucson.  But it also marks the end, because with this new door opening, the closed doors in its wake are being glossed over and brushed aside. Not only to the parents who do not want to be in a hospital when to meet their child for the first time, but to those nurses and midwives who searched out the birth center as the model they believed in and would dedicate themselves to. There are many of these women that I now consider my friends. It is for them that I mourn.

This space was made sacred as it bore witness to babies taking their first breaths. To mothers' blood, sweat, and tears.  To growing families. To the midwives and nurses who calmly supported each birth, giving away a little bit of themselves with each long night and beautiful new beginning.

Today marks a different sort of new beginning. I hope that, in time, the new space will have the quiet, heavy feel of a sacred space. A place where time seems to stand still.  Waiting for that next new beginning.

Thoughts on pregnancy loss

Mid October is already upon us. I love fall, even though we don't really get an autumnal season here, so this month is an enjoyable time for me. E and I have been spending every weekend morning out in our front yard among our harvest/fall decorations, enjoying the cool breeze and being outside without risking a sunburn. This is the first year of E's life where I feel she GETS it better, all the birthdays and holidays and celebrations, so I just know it's going to be a glorious holiday season. She's decided she wants to be a fox for Halloween and she's probably the most excited about trick-or-treating and eating the spoils of her efforts.

This year's autumn is different than any other, for a couple reasons. Obviously, I'm pregnant, which is drastically different than any other year. But on a deeper level, it's a time of grieving and reflection for me because the baby I miscarried early this year was supposed to be born mid-October. Appropriately, October is also Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance month. Since I lost that baby, my emotions have run the gamut. It's such a personal and private thing, to feel and know that my body lost a baby we'd waited and wished for so long. And yet, millions of women across the world are navigating pregnancy loss or infant loss, and the worst part is they're doing it alone. It's hard not to feel shame, to blame myself for what happened. I believe strongly that talking about it with our loved ones is important, if only so that the next woman it happens to doesn't feel shamed and lonely. 

Processing my grief has been a long road. I'm still working on it. When we learned that I was pregnant again, I had to process further. I guess I expected myself to get past the loss faster, particularly once my body was carrying another child. Why should I still long for the first baby when I now have this one who is growing so magnificently? Because they're not the same, I learned. I had dreams and hopes about the first child I was growing - that baby was already a person to me. And when I lost him, I lost all the things I'd been thinking of and wishing for that person. It's only natural that losing the first baby would affect my feelings about the next one, so when this pregnancy came along, I worried. I worried all the time, in every spare moment I had in which I wasn't sick or asleep. I tried really hard to be calm and trusting and accepting that my body could grow a healthy pregnancy, but I constantly would relive the profound sorrow of saying goodbye. In time, I passed the point I lost the first pregnancy and began to worry slightly less. Then I passed the end of the first trimester and started to really believe that a new family member would be born. Now we've passed our anatomy scan ultrasound and I've seen our little seal pup swimming inside me and it hits me like a ton of bricks that I love everything about this child. 

It bothers me that it took so long for me to see it. I feel guilt that this babe might have somehow felt that I wasn't all the way on board at the beginning. But I'm ready for you now, little selkie child. 

The time during and after the miscarriage, I thought fiercely to myself that if I ever (no, not if, WHEN, WHEN) became pregnant again, I would force myself to be grateful every day. I would cherish the time I got to carry another person within myself, to be responsible for growing another being. Funny, how when this pregnancy came along it shattered all the expectations of how I'd feel - because I felt like shit. That certainly wasn't in the plans. Some days, it was hard to remember that I felt so terrible BECAUSE I was growing another being. I didn't have any room for logic and reason. I didn't feel grateful, I felt angry because clearly, I'd paid my dues already by losing a pregnancy, shouldn't this one treat me nicely?! Turns out, it doesn't work that way. 

Now, we're already more than halfway through. Today, I'm so much closer to my own self again and I really am grateful about that. I no longer hate and resent all food - I can even cook food for myself! I can tolerate the smell of cooking food! I can boil water without it making my stomach heave! It's miraculous. The baby happily obliges me by fluttering and kicking and squirming around much of the day. My belly has begun to swell and really look like a round pregnant belly, despite how all my clothes make it look different than I perceive it. E enjoys talking about our baby and the things she will teach the baby (like how to crawl on sand into the ocean and do Crazy Eye). She's very good about being gentle with my abdomen and can hardly wait to feel the baby kicking. E also has started telling us that she's growing a baby in HER uterus, and her breasts will get milk, too. We've covered Biology 101 with her, but that hasn't deterred her enthusiasm for having a baby of her own. 

Today I feel all the things I wished I'd gotten to feel with that first child. I feel all the happy emotions I told myself I would feel when I got to carry another pregnancy. It may have taken me longer than I'd like, but I'm glad I made it. I can't promise how tomorrow will go, but for today, that's enough. 

Dear grieving mother

Dear grieving mother,

You don't know me. You would pass me in the hallway and never know who I am, but I might know you by your tearstained face, your hollow eyes, your not-quite-shrunken postpartum belly and your empty arms.

Your baby died. I'm so sorry.

I don't know anything else about you or your family or your situation, but I know your name because it was on your baby's toe tag, body bag and death certificate.

You see, after your precious little one passed away or was born still, he came through my morgue. The funeral home you carefully chose to use to try and say goodbye to him came to the hospital to collect his body, and I was in charge of releasing him.

It's the discharge nobody wants. It's the body none of us wish to have to release.

Your daughter looked so perfect, wrapped up in her blanket inside a body bag. She could have been sleeping. The way she had her hand curled up close to her face and her delicate little eyelids reminded me so much of my own daughter when she was born. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the pain grip my heart, knowing that what you're going through is a million times worse, and hoping that for maybe an instant your grief let up just a touch while I carried it for you.

I want you to know that I softly traced his cold cheek with my fingertips and gently ensured that the tag encircling his wee ankle matched the name on the outside of the body bag before tucking him back in. I smoothed his hair back and sent out thoughts of peace for his soul.

I want you to know that although you don't know me, and I don't know you - our lives touched for a moment. Your daughter was cared for gently and respectfully, and for the few minutes that she was my charge, I loved her. I loved her deeply, and in the same way, I loved you as well.

I can't do anything to bring back your precious child, but I thought maybe it might bring a few seconds' respite to the unending pain you're living through now to know that someone else, a stranger, was also touched by your baby and your grief.

I'm so sorry.

Love,
your local hospital's pathology tech

Dear Manni

You left us yesterday.  Technically it was yesterday, but really it was Valentine's Day evening.  We had a prior photography engagement yesterday and I was able to bury my head in the sand regarding your death, but I can't do it anymore.

It's my fault you died.  I'm so sorry. I can't go back and change what happened, and so I'm trying to forgive myself and move forward, but it really hurts my heart to know that if I'd done something differently, you'd still be here today.

I forgot to give you breakfast on Valentine's Day.  The day was a busy one, and you didn't even give me a reproachful look to tell me that you were hungry.  We went to meet a friend at the park for a playdate, then headed to Costco to finish getting our membership, and by the time we got back home that evening, we were already behind on dinner.  I put it on the stove while T was creating a flyer for the barrel race we were to take photos of Saturday.  By the time we'd all eaten, I was clearing the dishes and I saw your empty bowl.  I then realized that you hadn't eaten all day and felt my insides cringe with guilt.  I gave you two cups of food and poured some warm water over it for you, since you're getting old and like it that way now.

I admit, I wasn't paying attention to you while you ate.  I was putting E in pajamas and getting ready for bed.  I asked T to let you outside once more before bed.  We'd been laying in bed maybe ten minutes after you came back inside when we heard you knock something over.  I asked T to go see what you were doing, as my contacts weren't in.  She came back in and said that you'd been gagging and trying to vomit.  So back outside you went.  A few minutes later, she went to get you.  T came back into the bedroom and said that there was something obviously wrong with you, and could I come check.  I put in my contacts and found you right outside our door, sitting on your bed.

Your breathing was labored, your eyes looked like you were in a faraway place.  You were so uncomfortable, you kept trying to move, but you couldn't walk more than a few steps without laying back down.  Fairly quickly, I saw that your belly was full and hard and swollen.  I knew right off the bat that this was likely the end for you.  I called the emergency vet and loaded you in the back of the CR-V and off we went.  The vet told me that you had bloat, or gastric dilation volvulus.  As I'd feared, the treatment for this would likely be much, much more than we could afford.  I told the vet right then that we needed to euthanize you and stop your suffering.  He agreed.

I got to see you once more.  You were lying on the table, catheter placed in your leg.  You looked up when I entered the room, and your tail thumped on the table just once.  I reached for you; you put your head into the crook of my elbow, pushed against my belly.  I stroked your big head and kissed you right between your eyes.  I told you that it was going to be okay; that your pain was over and I was going to fix it.  I scratched behind your ears and tugged them gently one last time before the vet pushed the euthanasia drug into your veins.  You were gone before he even checked for your heartrate; I just knew.  I pulled your collar off before touching your sweet face in goodbye.

You've been a part of my life, a part of me, for nine years.  I'm really going to miss you.  And I'm really sorry that this is how our relationship has ended.

When I was eighteen, I wanted a Rottweiler puppy.  I went to an adoption at a Petsmart where I was told there was a rottie mix pup for adoption.  You were inside the little cat room with the Plexiglas front window, and I couldn't see anything but a tuft of black fur.  I went inside and you bounded up into my arms, a ten week old black hairball and a pink tongue spotted with purple. I petted you and hugged you and laughed at you for a few minutes before going to the table to fill out your adoption paperwork.  You sat in the window and watched me, tail wagging all along.

You certainly didn't grow up to be a Rottweiler, but you did grow up to be such a great dog.

There are so many things that I want to remember about you - so many things I'm afraid of forgetting.

You were always a sensitive spirit.  You sat on my feet, head in my lap when I'd cry.  When a baby cried, you'd rush to whomever was nearby but not holding a baby and look at us with those soulful brown eyes as if to say, "The baby is crying - why aren't you fixing it?"  If T and I were arguing, you'd tuck your tail between your legs and slink back and forth between us, trying to stop the raised voices and hurt feelings.  You loved sitting in front of the security door and watching the world outside the house.  When you tired of sitting, you'd lay down with your nose out the crack at the bottom of the door.  You would back up obligingly when E decided she'd rather have the front door shut, and she was going to do it whether or not you were in the way. You were so incredibly tolerant of babies.  All kinds of babies.  We fostered puppies and kittens and you loved each one, letting them chew on you or hump you or make nests out of the hair on your tail. You let our foster son and daughter pull your ears or fling themselves on you or open your mouth to examine your teeth and tongue.  And when E was born, you showed an attachment to her that melted my heart.  Your favorite place to nap was in front of her crib or under the kitchen table.  You were always so gentle with E, carefully taking the dog food she pilfered out of your bowl and insisted you eat out of her hand. You were always ALWAYS excited to see us when we came home - often to a point of annoyance because you wouldn't move out of the way so we could come inside. When we had visitors, you could barely contain yourself for want of running up to them and wiggling or sitting on their feet or sticking your nose in their crotch.  You were never the most graceful of creatures, but you were funny.  UPS, mailworkers, delivery personnel, Jehovah's witnesses, kids going door to door raising money for their team or club - people from all walks of life were TERRIFIED of the huge barking dog that lived in our house and frequently ran into the door because he didn't stop running in time. I never could convince anyone that all you'd do is love them to death.  You were so strange about food - sometimes it was like pulling teeth to get you to eat.  And you were so good about not begging.  You knew you weren't permitted near the table during mealtime and you politely waited at the edge of the dining room.  You were so scared of thunderstorms and fireworks.  We had a ThunderShirt we'd wrap around your ribs to help you feel safer, but ultimately you'd rather curl up under a bed or table or in a corner somewhere until the loud noises stopped.  You were amazing about only having accidents on hard floors rather than carpet.  I don't know how you taught yourself that, because I surely didn't, but you never had an accident on carpet.  And we really appreciated that.  You loved going for walks and car rides, even though you weren't terribly good at riding in the car. You had such a kind and accepting heart.  You thought all animals wanted to be your friend, even if they distinctly thought you were too excited, too big, too much to handle.  A dog trying to bite you obviously seemed like a dog who needed your love.  You weren't the brightest crayon in the box, but you tried so hard to please everyone.  And when I got frustrated at you, you'd lower your head and lay your ears flat and have the grace to look embarrassed. You loved to dig into the cool dirt in the shade and stretch out for a nap.  You loved escaping the yard and taking yourself on adventures through the neighborhood.

It's so strange to walk out of our bedroom and not have to step carefully over your sleeping form, or trip on your bed, or accidentally squeak your favorite Lambchop toy underfoot.  I keep seeing your empty waterbowl and thinking, "oh shoot, I need to fill that up!".  I drive up into the driveway and hope that E wasn't sleeping, because your barking at my arrival will surely wake her.  I no longer have to be vigilant about the gate latching all the way.  There's no black Houdini dog to push it open anymore. I vacuumed today - and I knew that it meant I was vacuuming up the last of your hair clumps.  It almost felt disrespectful to be getting rid of every last piece of you so soon after your passing - and having that thought feels foolish.  Leaving your shed hair in my carpet won't bring you back home.

You have been with me for my entire adult life.  To face the day without you now... well, it feels like stepping into a new chapter.  I hate the fact that E will probably never remember how much you loved her.  I hate the fact that you'll never meet any other child we may have.

We knew that you were getting on in years, and your hips and legs have only been getting worse in recent years.  We knew your time was close.  I just didn't realize how close.

Sleep sweetly and well, wonderful Manni dog, knowing that you were loved and that you did an amazing job of being our dog and our friend.  I'll miss you and your happy dog grin.

 Manni McGill
March 2005 - February 15 2014

Dear Grama

Today was your memorial service.  I've never actually attended a memorial service before, so I can't say how it compares, but I thought yours was fitting.  I think you would have liked it.

It was simple.
It was heartfelt.
It was full of love.
It had Pepsi.

We gathered together, everyone in one room, seated in burgundy plastic chairs facing a table.  On the table was a simple cloth, a 2 liter bottle of Pepsi in the center, two framed photos (one of you from your Navy days, one of you with your adult children around you), and two elegant vases of cut flowers - tiny sunflowers and daisies and baby's breath.  It made me laugh, because as my mother-in-law remarked, cut flowers were perfect for this because you always said you hate cut flowers. Cut flowers are for funerals.  And here we are.

Aunt Gretchen was our master of ceremonies, and she led us into a short but meaningful program where several family members recounted stories and thoughts of you, followed by the Lord's prayer, and finished up with the playing of Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" remix.

Many people say, during times of grief and loss, that our loved one who has passed away wouldn't want us to be sad.  But I don't know if that's accurate even some of the time.  Today, I think you would have appreciated that we all are saddened at the idea that we'll no longer be making new memories with you.  Everyone wants to be loved.  Everyone wants to leave a mark on our ever-changing world.  Sometimes that mark is just a room full of people who weep to think that you've left us. Of course, you've left a more lasting impression than that in all the people who are here because you were here.

We walked out of the community room, where many of us allowed ourselves to truly feel the finality of your loss, and we left the darkness of the building for the bright sunshine of a desert winter's day.  A light breeze cooled the tears from our cheeks.  The great grandchildrens' shrieks and laughter filled our ears - the music of life.  We remembered to smile.  We gathered in groups, taking photos of people who see each other all too infrequently.

It was a gorgeous day.  I know you would have loved the warm sun on your skin, the crisp scent of fallen leaves in the air.

It was the perfect day for you, for your memory to be firmly embedded into each of our hearts.

Together, we will forge ahead.  Sometimes, we'll let the grief overwhelm us.  But that is no way to live.  So mostly, we'll keep living.  We'll live on with the lessons you taught us, the jokes you laughed at, the jewelry you left us, the photos we gave you that have now been returned.

And the next people to join the family?  The spouses to come, the children yet to be born?  They'll know you, too.  Everyone will know the infamous Nan, the matriarch of the family.

Thank you for sharing your life with us, Grama.

Another Goodbye

I fully intended on writing a blog to share all of the Christmas photos, but it seems that Christmas is going to continue to be overshadowed by loss.

Today is the memorial for my grandmother. I should be getting dressed.  I just can't bring myself to put on the outfit I picked out. I know its a memorial, most people will be wearing black.  I never in my life saw my grandmother wear black. For her entire family to gather, somber faces and black clothes just doesn't seem to be a testament to her very colorful life. 

Unfortunately, I don't really have anything bright enough to make that statement. I work in a theater, 95% of my wardrobe is black. So I will go put on my black blouse, and my grandmother's ring, and go find the comfort of family as we celebrate the life of my grandmother.